Until the Blood Fades
by EstelRaca
Summary: Enjolras is secretly a unicorn; Grantaire is secretly a virgin. They are still, for better and worse, themselves. Written based on a prompt for Barricade Day 2013.


**Author's Note: **This was written for Barricade Day, for the prompt "Enjolras is secretly a unicorn; Grantaire is secretly a virgin".

_Until the Blood Fades_

Grantaire finds out that Enjolras is a unicorn in 1829.

They're in the middle of a full-fledged riot when it happens. Grantaire isn't entirely sure how the whole mess got started—he had been hanging back in the crowd, hanging onto pamphlets that people occasionally took out of his hands, watching Enjolras speak, watching the crowd react to him. He hadn't been paying much attention to the words that were coming from Enjolras' mouth, mainly because he couldn't hear very well from where he was, partly because he was somewhere between drunk and hung-over and not really liking either sensation.

Then in the course of thirty seconds Grantaire saw the gendarmes arrive, saw Enjolras turning to face them, heard the angry roaring of the crowd as they surged forward around him, and everything lost coherency.

He thinks he hears shots ring out.

He's certain he hears screams of pain.

He's not sure where to go, though, if he should be pressing forward to try to reach where Enjolras and Bahorel had been or falling back to try to find Feuilly and Joly and there's utter chaos making it difficult for him to even determine which way is forward and which is back.

Then Combeferre is there, dragging a shouting, furious, bloody Enjolras, and Grantaire watches the pamphlets that he had been holding flutter away as Combeferre presses Enjolras bodily into Grantaire's arms.

"There are more wounded. I need to see if I can help any of them. Get him out of here." Combeferre pauses, Enjolras sandwiched between Combeferre and Grantaire, protected from the seething crowd by their bodies. "Go with him, Enjolras. Your passing out here won't help any of us."

With that Combeferre is gone, disappearing back into the crowd.

For two, three, four seconds Enjolras simply trembles against Grantaire's body, his mouth open in a feral snarl, blood sluicing down the right side of his face, trickling down his left arm in a stream that Grantaire doesn't like.

Then Enjolras lunges forward, and it's all Grantaire can do to keep a hold on him as they both crash to the ground.

Down on the ground, with Enjolras bleeding, in the middle of a riot that can't decide if it's moving forward or back, and Grantaire realizes, in his first truly sober moment in a while, that he might very well die today.

And then he's not on the ground. He's sitting astride a great black beast, not quite a horse but that's the closest his mind can come right now, and the crowd is parting around him though no one's screaming like they should be. Do they not see the great hooves, cloven like a goat's but as large as a horse's? Do they not see the horn sprouting from between the beast's eyes, lethally sharp, seeming to be carved from some type of smoky crystal?

Liquid drips down through the beast's fire-colored forelock, a pale red like blood mixed with starlight, pools in the street beneath the beast's left foot, and Grantaire realizes that it matches the blood on his hands and clothes.

Enjolras' blood.

And his hands are looped in the mane of this creature with the same death-tight grip that his hands had been locked on Enjolras' clothes, holding him tight, keeping him close.

And…

And…

"You're a _unicorn_?" The words are blurted out in a tone about an octave higher than Grantaire had intended.

"You're a _virgin_?" The beast prances in a circle, one familiar blue eye rolling back to study Grantaire. Its—his—gait is awkward, a heavy lameness to every step that involves his left front leg, jerking Grantaire awkwardly as he tries to keep his saddle-less seat. Tossing his head high, flinging drops of pale blood over the crowd like rain, Enjolras gives a very horse-like snort. "Never mind. You see what I am. You've caught me. Use me."

"_What?_" Grantaire stares in gape-mouthed horror down at the talking unicorn.

The talking unicorn that is Enjolras.

Maybe he's still drunk.

That would explain everything. He's very, very drunk and this is all a hallucination and—

"_Use me!_" Enjolras tosses his head again, the shifting fire-hued strands of his mane cutting into Grantaire's hand. "Use me or get off!"

"How?" The crowd is starting to thin, the number of people stumbling against Enjolras' body and jostling Grantaire's legs where they clutch helplessly at Enjolras' flanks greatly diminished.

"Tell me what to do, and I will do it." Another turn in a circle, and Enjolras almost goes to his knees, his left front leg buckling under him. "Send me into battle."

"No. I'm supposed to be getting you _away_ from here." If there's any part of this that isn't a hallucination, if there's any truth to Combeferre shoving Enjolras into his arms, then Grantaire needs to get them away from here. "If you'll do anything that I say, take us back to the Musain."

Enjolras stills, black equine body trembling between Grantaire's legs, sweat starting to slick the too-long fur on his neck and flanks. "I won't—"

"Take us to the Musain." Grantaire tugs on the strands of mane caught tight between his hands, his human-red blood mixing with the star-streaked red of Enjolras' blood. "_Now_."

With a scream that mixes human, horse, and something very, very feral, Enjolras spins and does as commanded.

XXX

The ride to the Musain is hell.

Grantaire will be painting images from it until the day he dies, and none of them will capture a modicum of the terror that he experiences.

Partly it's the terror of riding an out-of-control beast. All Grantaire can do is cling to Enjolras, his leg muscles screaming at the unaccustomed tension and seat, his hands burning in agony with every forward lunge of Enjolras' head, the strands of Enjolras' mane cutting deep into his hands.

Partly it's the terror of moving too fast, the world whirring by at a speed that Grantaire's quite certain is supernatural.

Partly it's the _things_ he sees, snatches of a world behind the world, of creatures and places and landscapes too beautiful for him to remember and too awful for him to contemplate.

Grantaire's crying when Enjolras finally comes to a halt in front of the Musain, limping even more heavily than before, breath coming in panting heaves. Enjolras' voice is more normal, though, the clarion-clear call that Grantaire is used to listening to, the voice that can stir a crowd to hope and madness, and he forces himself to focus on that, just on that, and to push the rest of the nightmare away.

"—get down, Grantaire, but don't let go of my mane. Come, now. The longer we stay here the more difficult this will be."

"All right. Down. Don't let go." Grantaire mutters the commands to himself, forcing uncooperative, shaking muscles to do his bidding. He doesn't fall when his feet hit the ground, but that's partly because he leans heavily against Enjolras' dark shoulder. Keeping his right hand wrapped in Enjolras' mane, he uses his left to gently probe the deep tear in Enjolras' leg that continues to ooze blood. "Uh, Enjolras, how do you… how do I get you to change back?"

"You release me. But not yet." Enjolras speaks the command sharply, and Grantaire reaffirms his grasp on the blood-slicked strands of mane. "First, hold out your hands, one at a time, keeping a hold on my mane."

Grantaire does so, and Enjolras lowers his head so that the very tip of the wicked-looking horn presses against the center of Grantaire's palm. The pain of the cuts immediately fades away, and Grantaire watches in fascination as the cuts themselves heal over, leaving the faintest scars and just a single pinprick of fresh blood, right where Enjolras' horn touched.

"Good." Enjolras sighs, a deep sound like the rustle of wind through the woods. "Now, let me go, and don't catch me if I fall. I'll hold to you if I need to, but I'd prefer not to be shoved back into this form."

Grantaire takes both hands away from Enjolras' mane, takes a step back from him, and watches in horrified fascination as the great black beast fades away, leaving a bloody and tired-looking Enjolras swaying in his place. The blood on Enjolras' face looks human, now, though if Grantaire squints in just the right way there's a sheen to it that might be mistaken for starlight.

Enjolras opens his eyes and gestures with his good right hand toward the door. "We're here. We might as well make use of it. You can bandage my injuries, and I'll answer what questions I can. All right?"

No. There is absolutely nothing all right with anything that has happened today. Grantaire still nods his head, a jerky, uncertain motion, and murmurs out an assent.

When he's already this deep into the hallucination, what can he lose by continuing it?

XXX

The bullet wound on Enjolras' upper shoulder is deep, and Grantaire's worried that the bone might have been hit and fractured or something else terrible, but he doesn't know enough about medicine to tell.

Enjolras simply requests that Grantaire bandage the wound on his arm to stop the bleeding. "It will heal."

"Yes, well, Combeferre will kill me if I do something incorrect with regards to your health." Grantaire applies pressure to the wound, hoping to at least staunch the steady flow of blood. He uses his free hand to part Enjolras' hair, finding the ugly bruise and jagged cut made by a piece of flung stone responsible for the bleeding there. The bleeding from Enjolras' scalp seems to have stopped, at least.

"It is very difficult to do something incorrect with regard to my health." Enjolras smiles, though it's a thin, stretched expression. "Do you have questions, Grantaire?"

"Of course I have questions! If any of this is real, then… then…" Grantaire grapples with the enormity of what he's seen. "Won't everyone else know? Won't others at the riot, others in the street here know?"

He doesn't ask if anyone they passed in their mad dash from the riot to the Musain will remember. He's fairly certain that no one could see them, not in whatever realm Enjolras' cloven hooves were touching for that ride.

"That's not usually the first question that's asked." Enjolras raises his eyebrows, something like pleasure touching his mouth for a moment. "Though it is an important one. No, they won't remember. My kind, and others like us, we don't belong to the same world as you. We don't… _stick_ easily in human minds. Most refuse to even acknowledge that we're present, though some will see us and remember it as a dream, a phantom, a haunting. Artists, poets, children, they tend to remember more easily, but no one remembers us clearly for long."

"Then… I'm going to forget?" Grantaire frowns, his hand instinctively tightening around Enjolras' arm. "I'm not going to remember?"

"No. Probably not." Enjolras smiles again, though this time there is a sad, weary edge to it. "I will answer your questions anyway, if you still wish to ask."

It's a relief, in a way. He really doesn't want to remember anything of the mad rush through the streets.

On the other hand… on the other hand, Enjolras is a _unicorn_, and he doesn't want to forget something so wonderful and mad. "Do any of the others know?"

"There's one other in the Amis who's seen me in my wild form. He doesn't remember it clearly now, though." The smile fades, leaving only the melancholy behind. "He hasn't been able to see my wild form for four years now."

"Why not? And why can I—could I… _why_?" Letting go of Enjolras' shoulder before his tightening fingers can hurt anything, Grantaire spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness and confusion.

"Because you're a virgin." Enjolras shrugs. "It's a weakness my people have. We can't be ridden by anyone except for virgins."

"I'm afraid I'm still confused."

"That's because I'm doing a poor job of explaining. I suppose… let me start at the beginning. What you saw, what you rode, is my wild form. It's how I look in my world, how I look when I cross over to your world, how I look when I'm not binding my magic. It is me, but it is… a more feral version of me, a less _human_ version of me. It can only be controlled by a virgin rider." Enjolras studies Grantaire. "I must say, out of all of them, I would not have expected you to be a virgin. You speak a great deal about sex for a virgin, and without most of the mistakes that frequently accost those speaking solely out of bravado."

"When I wish to study, I do a very thorough job of it." A blush rises to Grantaire's face, and he can't quite meet Enjolras' eyes.

"But not so thorough as to study with a prostitute, though it would be a simple thing to do." Enjolras' tone is contemplative, not dismissive.

"I don't…" He doesn't want to pay for sex. He doesn't want to simply ride a woman who cares nothing for him, who will smile at him solely for the coin in his pocket and obey his command but quite possibly hate him under every smile that she gives. Who will remember him as the ugly one, the one who smelled of alcohol and spoke for hours and tried so hard to make her laugh, as though it actually mattered to her at all. Better to be a virgin forever than to be something so pathetic. "I think your secret is a bit more important, and still rather confusing. If that thing I rode is what you truly are, why do you look human now? If humans don't see and remember your kind, how can we interact with you like this? How can you be our leader?"

"Don't say it's what I truly am. Don't call it my true form. Wild, I said, and wild is what it is, but this is as truly me as that is. More truly me, these last years, and it is very precious to me." Enjolras' right hand rises to press against his chest, the fingers dancing along his blood-spattered shirt in graceful patterns. "I bound myself to my last rider, to your world. He was a child when he first caught and tamed me, but he earned my respect, and in return I gave him me. I donned human flesh for him, letting him shape me. I speak human words. I fight human fights. I am Enjolras, and I shall remain so until he dies or another breaks the bond between us."

"Your last rider… the one who can't remember you anymore?" Grantaire knows who it is, has known since Enjolras said that there was one other in the Amis who knew his secret, but he speaks the name anyway. "Combeferre?"

Enjolras smiles, inclining his head the barest fraction.

"So you're bound to Combeferre and to this human form until he dies." Grantaire doesn't really want to consider Combeferre dying—_any_ of the Amis dying—especially not when he still doesn't know the outcome of the riot, so he hurries on. "But I made you change to your wild form. How?"

"A virgin sat astride me. A virgin captured me, despite my attempts at escape. I was yours to command and control. That magic is stronger than anything I could ever hope to weave, etched into the very fabric of my being." There's a tenseness to Enjolras' shoulders, a terseness to his answer that says he doesn't like this.

"That… seems like a rather large and dangerous loophole to have in your identity."

"Does it?" Enjolras shrugs. "You're the only one among the Amis who's caused me to change back so far. The number of virgins engaged in our line of work seems to be rather small, and the number who could capture and ride me even smaller. You wouldn't have had a prayer of holding me against my will if I hadn't had a skull fracture."

"A _what_?"

"Don't look so distraught." A flicker of amusement enters Enjolras' voice. "I did tell you that I am hard to kill, didn't I? The bone's knitted itself together already. My shoulder will take longer to heal, as my body dislikes the touch of worked metal in any form, but it will heal."

"It will heal." Grantaire finds himself echoing the words, unsure what else to do. "And it changes nothing? My riding you won't change your bond with Combeferre or… or anything?"

"My bond with him is magic I wove out of love and respect. It can be broken by death or by will, but not by force. I will remain myself." Enjolras' right hand reaches out, touches Grantaire's shoulder briefly as a faint smile touches Enjolras' face. "Your concern for me is noted and appreciated, though."

"The body you made for yourself doesn't look much like your wild form." Grantaire frowns. "And you're very… involved in human politics, if Combeferre is your only reason for being so. And the two of you argue over details quite often given this strange and impossible background you have. And it's very sad that he doesn't remember you. And—"

"Grantaire. One question at a time." Enjolras' hand once again touches his shoulder, familiar, comforting, very firm and very real. "I look as Combeferre wanted me to look. As for my politics, it is a combination of his and my own nature. Freedom is in my whole being, Grantaire. I cannot stand to see cages, be they physical or metaphorical. The politics that shaped a child are not those that an adult holds, though. As Combeferre learns and grows, I learn and grow, each in our own way."

"Until he dies." Grantaire whispers the words. "Shouldn't you do everything you can to keep him away from this fight, then? Even if he can't remember, even if he doesn't know how much it means, shouldn't—"

"I will not stand for cages." Enjolras' words are gruff and certain. "And you would ask why I do not cage the one who enticed me into this flesh in the first place? I will protect him, as best I can. I will help him achieve his goals—my goals—our goals. I will never tell him to run or to hide."

No. Enjolras is not the kind to run from any battle, and Grantaire's ears are suddenly filled once more with a ghost of the awful cry that heralded their departure from the riot.

"Come." Enjolras stands, holding out his uninjured right hand. "You are uninjured? Good. We should rendezvous with the others, see who is hurt and who is captured and do what we can for everyone. Do not dwell too much on this morning's events, Grantaire. Give it a day or two, and it will all be a dream, easily put behind you."

Grantaire nods, following where Enjolras leads, but he doesn't find the words as comforting as he thinks they were intended to be.

XXX

Grantaire doesn't sleep for almost seventy-two hours.

He can't afford to. He needs to keep drawing, sketching, painting, putting everything down on paper, so that the images and the emotions and the knowledge can't run away from him, can't fade into obscurity.

He's exhausted by the end of it, too tired to stand, too tired to answer the door when his friends come knocking to make sure that he's all right, too tired to do anything but stare at the last piece, the most important one, a familiar blue eye that he's drawn a thousand times before staring out of a black equine head, mane like fire flowing all around it.

He will not forget.

He will not allow himself to.

And if his sanity is the price he pays for the memories, well, who among his friends will even notice the difference?

XXX

He doesn't tell Enjolras that he remembers until the revolution in 1830.

He's terrified.

He doesn't think he's ever been so terrified in his life. He can't tell if they're winning or losing, can't tell if his head's pounding from a hangover or from not drinking in he doesn't know how long or from the sharp reports of gunfire or just from absolute, unthinking, blind _terror_. How is everyone else managing to stay so calm and sober and together? How is everyone else managing to look so _cheerful_ in between skirmishes, when they can still hear the screams of the injured and the dying as Combeferre and Joly and a handful of others work on them? How can they all seem so eager when they comfort him, the touch of Courfeyrac's arm, Bossuet's laugh, Feuilly's fierce grin the only things helping him to keep his sanity?

Why is he even here? He doesn't know if he believes in the revolution, still. A gun in his hand and blood in the streets and he still doesn't know _what he's doing_ and he needs to talk to someone.

He's scared.

He's scared and he's lost and he needs to talk to Enjolras,

He catches Enjolras' sleeve with a hand that's shaking like an old man's, stares into eyes blue as the sky and deep as the ocean, and finds himself thinking of another time, another place, a fire-bright mane of hair rather than a sun-blond one surrounding that half-wild look. "I remember."

Enjolras gives him a curious, confused look.

"From the riot. I remember. What you are." The words come out in staccato bursts, and he tightens his hand on Enjolras' sleeve.

Confusion gives way to understanding, and Enjolras steers him back, away from the others, away from anyone who might overhear, into what privacy there can be on the barricade. "Not here, Grantaire, not now. Later we'll—"

"Will there be a later?" A sound partway between a sob and a laugh slides from his throat. "Will there be a chance to talk, after? Will we all die here—will _he_ die here, and you run free, a wild thing again?"

"The people are coming to our side, Grantaire." There's a gleam to Enjolras' eyes, a surety to his smile. "We are going to win this fight."

"Are you certain? You can't be certain. Even you, even magic such as you, can't be truly _certain_." The trembling has taken his whole body. "If it comes to it, if we are losing, could I take you away from here? Could I ride you away, through the shadow-ways that you used before? Could we—"

"I will not run. I will not abandon our friends and the people who are rallying to us." Disgust fills Enjolras' voice, and he pulls his arm back, though Grantaire refuses to let go of his sleeve. After a moment the disgust fades, just slightly, and Enjolras shakes his head. "I could not do that. I could not abandon any of them. And you wouldn't wish me to, I don't think. Have faith, Grantaire. Have courage. I will be truthful with you. If I think that we do not have a chance, I will tell you. I do not think that yet. There is no need for rash action."

There is utter certainty and honesty in Enjolras' words, in his face, and Grantaire finds himself nodding, the trembling fading away. His fingers loosen their hold, slowly. "All right."

Enjolras nods, turning away, then pauses and half-turns back. "It may be possible for you to take me into battle, though, if that was your wish. I do not know. I've never tried to fight a group of people in my wild form. I've never wanted to before. Would you want to try it?"

Ride the great black fire-beast into battle, into the middle of the enemy, risking everything.

Ride Enjolras again, do something for him that no other here could do.

Possibly ride Enjolras to his death, because iron and metal is something that the enemy has in spades.

He doesn't know if he could do it. He doesn't know what commands his mouth and feet might give once in that situation. "If I mount you and then tell you to run, would you do it?"

"I would have no choice." Enjolras speaks quietly, in a monotone. "I must obey a virgin rider. But I would hate the man who dragged me from here before I was ready to go. I would hate him for all eternity."

Grantaire swallows, hard, balancing fire-blue eyes against the weakening screams from one of the wounded.

He does not trust himself with a gun.

How could he possibly trust himself to command Enjolras?

"Where would I be of the most help?" Grantaire cannot meet those blue eyes, instead focusing on the torn-up street.

Enjolras' hand is gentle on his shoulder. "Come with me, and we will find you a place."

XXX

They win.

They win and they lose, the revolution stolen from beneath them, corrupted and tainted before the blood is even dry, and Grantaire finds himself drinking even more heavily than usual as the others scramble to salvage what can be salvaged.

What was it all for?

If it all comes to nothing, if blood and death and victory win _nothing_, what was it all for?

The others don't give up. There is anger, from Bahorel and Courfeyrac particularly, and frustrated sorrow from Feuilly, and a thousand other permutations on grief and disappointment from them all, but there is no despair. There is no suggestion that they stop, that they give up, that they resign themselves to what will be.

Somehow, even after all of that, no one but him has come through with their soul shaken and their deepest cynicisms reaffirmed.

It's a week before Enjolras has time to talk with him alone. He understands why. He sees how busy Enjolras and the others are, how much work they are putting into a lost situation, and though he doesn't understand how they do it or why they do it, he finds it fascinating to watch, anyway.

When Enjolras does approach him, it's quietly, as they are both preparing to leave the Musain for the night. Enjolras stops Grantaire from standing with a hand on his shoulder, and then settles into a chair beside him. Leaning forward, the blond man speaks very quietly. "You can remember?"

For a few second Grantaire stares into Enjolras' eyes, uncertain what to say, uncertain if he can deal with _that_ on top of everything else.

Enjolras' expression falters, uncertainty touching his voice. "At the barricade, you told me you could remember."

"I…" Grantaire looks away. "I don't remember, now. It's all a blur."

"Ah." Enjolras looks faintly disappointed, then smiles and touches Grantaire's shoulder once more. "Forget I said anything, then. Go home. Get some sleep. We've still a fair amount of work to do tomorrow."

"Right. Tomorrow." Always talk of tomorrow, of the future, of hope, of the possibilities embodied within humanity, and yet Enjolras isn't even human.

Perhaps he will be ready to discuss this with Enjolras someday.

Perhaps he will be able to understand and accept Enjolras in all his complexity someday.

But not yet.

XXX

He doesn't talk with Enjolras about Enjolras' wild form in the next two years.

Grantaire means to. He considers many times doing it, rising from his table, separating Enjolras out from the rest, but his feet never obey the command, his mouth never shapes the words. Days turn into weeks turn into months, and the longer he waits the harder it becomes to say anything.

Enjolras never brings the topic up, either, though he sometimes looks at Grantaire with a mixture of wistfulness and disappointment that cuts Grantaire more sharply than any blade ever could.

XXX

In 1832 Grantaire wakes into silence, and knows immediately that things have gone very wrong.

It's an awareness that is only confirmed when looks over and sees Enjolras leaning against the wall, panting heavily, his arms crossed over his chest, shivering as though cold. There is blood spattered on his clothes, on his face, in his hair, though none of it appears to be his own.

The red splashes in Enjolras' hair turn his radiant blond mane into a fiery halo, closer than Grantaire has ever seen it to his wild form.

Grantaire stands, and the noise causes Enjolras to jerk his head up, his eyes coming to rest on Grantaire immediately. His hair doesn't move quite right, twisting and curling, longer than it should be, and Grantaire realizes that the red glint isn't solely blood. There are traces of fire-red hair bleeding through into Enjolras' form, a hint of shadow between his eyes that will become a crystal horn.

"They're dead." Grantaire speaks quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the approaching soldiers. "He's dead."

"Yes." Enjolras meets his eyes, and there is fire beneath the blue, fire _fracturing_ the blue, until Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment and then reopens them. There is no regret in his sky-blue gaze, only knowledge and acceptance. "He is dead—they are all dead—and Enjolras will die with them. It takes all of my will to hold this form, now, but I will do it. I will—"

"I could ride you." There isn't time to say all that he wants to. There isn't time to apologize, to question, to consider, because the soldiers will be upon them in moments. "I'm still a virgin, and I could ride you into battle. If you will permit it."

Enjolras freezes, a horse preparing to strike or to spook, and then a smile breaks across his face, the most human expression Grantaire has ever seen. "It takes all of my will to hold this form. Do what you wish—what you dare."

For once in his life Grantaire refuses to harbor any doubts, moving as swiftly as humanly possible.

His arms close around Enjolras' body, and it seems as though he holds a bonfire to his chest, a bonfire whose flames leap to his bidding, a bonfire with eyes of shining blue that gaze on him with joy rather than pity or frustration or disappointment.

This time, at last, he will be worthy.

XXX

The leader of the rebels, the marksman, must have had a sword that he kept for one last stand.

That's the official word, the only logical explanation for the slaughter of over two dozen men who should have been his executioners.

The survivors whisper other tales, to each other, to anyone else who will listen, tales that are wild and impossible and certainly untrue, tales based on memories that are as insubstantial and wispy as the thinnest fog.

Surely there was nothing with hooves involved in the rebels' last stand.

Surely there is no creature alive with a mane of fire and a single horn sharper than any steel blade ever made.

And even if such a creature existed, it would take a madman to ride him bareback.

Talk of such a beast fades quickly, though, as quickly as fog in the light of day, as quickly as the memories that never quite seemed real to begin with.

What the survivors don't talk about but never forget is the look on the faces of the last two rebels when they finally fell, one atop the other. The rider—the _follower_, for there was no beast and so there was no rider—died with his eyes closed, his hands gripped into tight fists, holding his leader's shirt as though that could staunch the bleeding.

The blond man died with eight deep stab wounds in his chest but his eyes open, the color a piercing blue that never faded with death, and the smile on his face haunts all those who saw it for the rest of their lives.


End file.
